To have such a tortured past, Salem is nearly a perfect city. Small and friendly, with a beautiful downtown, Salem sits on the harbor with incredible views of the Atlantic Ocean. Because Nathaniel Hawthorne is my dead boyfriend, and he was born in Salem, and because I teach American literature, I knew I would need several hours in Salem to quench my American history/lit appetite. So, we left out early, drove into Salem around the Boston traffic (which is as wicked hellacious as everyone says) and hit the sights.
We started at the visitors center, and the attendant there was more than helpful. (By the way, our experience with people in Massachusetts has been phenomenal. Everyone has been more than friendly and seemed to enjoy talking to us and helping us when we needed info or directions.) She gave me a map, told me of some particular events around town, and then told me that everything on the map was no more than a mile from where we were, the ocean included. I had read numerous positive reviews of the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum, so we headed there first.
I guess the Lord has blessed our trip because nearly every time we hit a touring spot, we have hit it at just the right time, and the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum was no different. We had about 15 minutes before the next show, so we took care of restroom breaks and photos and were ready for the show. Of all the moments in Boston, this might have been the historical one that actually interested Jordan and Joel. They didn’t come into the museum anticipating enjoying the festivities, but we all knew as soon as we entered the theater that we were in for something quite different. The theater area was created similar to a Puritan church with backless benches lining the center. We were told to take a seat anywhere in the dark room and wait for instructions. I could make out a few shadows of the characters along the sides of the theater, and because I teach The Crucible, I could tell where the show was headed, but that didn’t mean I didn’t get chills or learn something. After instructions, a narrator’s deep male voice began telling the story of the innocent victims of the Salem Witch Trials. As the story progressed, each scene lit up in a counter-clockwise direction, and we followed the story all around the dark room. The scenes were created with mannequins and with less-than-professional effects, but that aspect along with the dim lights of various colors, created a haunting atmosphere appropriate for this horrifying story. The story was historically accurate, but the story itself is chilling enough; no embellishments are needed.
After the diorama / story-telling first act, we moved to another room where a knowledgeable tour guide led us through a display about the history of witches. She started with various portraits of witches throughout history, including those portrayed in Hollywood. Separating each section of the lecture were more diorama/story-telling moments where voices would speak behind portraits / mannequins as if those items were speaking directly to us. The history included stories about pagan healers in the days before Jesus, organized witch hunts throughout the Christian era, and Hollywood’s variations on the folk witch image. At the end of the lecture, the guide gave a short history behind Arthur Miller’s The Crucible as a metaphor for McCarthyism and then offered a wonderful math equation to show how this witch hunt phenomenon evolves in certain points of our history. This formula shows quite clearly how a witch hunt develops from fear, and I hope to use it in my class this year when we research the modern implications of the lessons presented in The Crucible.
Of course, we had to exit through the gift shop, and I found an excellent t-shirt to wear when I teach The Crucible this year along with some other classroom decorations and a teachers’ kit for teaching about the Salem Witch Trials. I asked the cashier if Salem became a mad house in October, and her answer was, “You have no idea.”
Honestly, I thought the troubled past of Salem would have created a more mystic or haunting atmosphere. I was sure I would feel the unrest of the accused souls still walking the streets, hoping the tourists would take notice of their injustice. Yet, I didn’t feel any creepiness, even when I went to the graveyard and the memorial. In fact, Salem has almost commercialized the history to a point where the atmosphere seems almost like that of a witch theme park. The streets are lined with psychics and professing witches, crystal balls and broomsticks, and all the accessories to make the witch history almost totally kitsch. In fact, we saw an old-time photography store where one dresses up in witch attire rather than old west attire for black-and-white photos. Stores sold t-shirts that said, “I got stoned in Salem” and “I am not a witch; I just curse a lot.” Funny, sarcastic, and clever – but not haunting.
We left the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum and headed for the Salem Witch Trial Memorial, where for each person murdered in the trials, a bench sits in a semi-circle with his or her name and life dates carved into the seat. I sat a while with John Proctor, whom I have always considered to be one of the sexiest characters in American lit because of his resistance to the hysteria and his strength in opposing the daunting and prejudiced judges to the point of sacrificing himself to stay true to what was true. I also took a minute to honor Giles Cory, one of the toughest and proudest of the victims of the trials. If you don’t know about Giles Cory, he is worth researching; his story is remarkable. Finally, I stopped to admire the memorials of flowers for Bridget Bishop and the memorials of rocks and pennies for Sarah Good. Quite poignant.
At the Salem cemetery, I found the grave sights of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s parents and grandparents. For those who don’t know, Hawthorne was born Nathaniel Hathorne in Salem, but he added the “w” to his name to disassociate himself from one of his grandfathers, Judge Hathorne, who was relentless in his pursuit of punishing those accused of witchcraft. He was so appalled by his family member’s participation in the trials, he changed his name and eventually moved away (his grave is in Concord). So Daniel Hathorne’s grave and that of Nathaniel’s mother and other relatives sit in a family gravesite there in Salem. Some of the graves were so old, tree roots had grown around the granite, and many of the tombstones were completely unreadable.
Next stop: the custom house, the famed custom house of the preface to The Scarlet Letter where Hawthorne worked for a while as he composed some of his greatest works. If you know The Scarlet Letter, then you know he devised a story of finding some old artifacts in the custom house, one of which was a magical and mysterious red letter A trimmed in gold thread. The beautiful enigma of the letter spurred him to research its history, and the story of Hester Prynne evolved from there. If you know me, then you know how much I adore The Scarlet Letter, so I couldn’t wait to see the very place where Hawthorne had actually worked and developed the idea for his masterpiece. The National Park guide showed us a replica of an authentic bill given to a ship that docked there in the early 19th century; I was astonished to learn that the ship’s owner would have had to pay over $15,000 in custom taxes when he landed in Salem. In the first room to the left sat Hawthorne’s desk along with his pen, ink well, walking stick, and something like a thermometer that measured alcohol content for taxing purposes. I overheard some less-than-literary people in the room before us trying to brainstorm every piece of knowledge they possessed about Hawthorne. I gripped Marc’s arm to keep myself from dashing off a smart remark, and I had to turn around altogether when the man asked Siri, “What books did Nathaniel Hawthorne write?”.
“I need them to leave. I need to be here alone with just us when I see his stuff,” I whispered to Marc.
“You are scaring me, Kristie.” Marc answered.
“I just need to feel the vibes, get a sense of his work,” I explained. I just could not take in the ambiance of the very room where Hawthorne wrote part of The Scarlet Letter while those who could not appreciate his greatness Googled information about him. When they left, I soaked in all I could find and imagined Hawthorne sitting at the desk in front of me, contemplating Dimmesdale’s self-torture and Chillingworth’s brilliantly devastating method of revenge. If I could tap into one ounce of his talent and insight….
Jordan and Joel lost interest quickly and waited on me on the steps of the custom house, so I soaked in all I could, walked out, and began our trek to The House of the Seven Gables, which was less than a half mile on down the road. The sun scorched our path just as hot as if we were back home in South Carolina, and we gratefully stopped at the mist fans placed along the road. We stopped for a moment to see about a ship tour later in the afternoon, but the ship had not arrived, yet, and the boys said that if they ship were not going to leave the harbor, they didn’t see a need to tour it. So, just a moment with the House of the Seven Gables and then lunch and we would be on our way.
The House of the Seven Gables, however, was the place I had been looking for, a place where people loved Nathaniel Hawthorne like I did. Our guided tour was to start in about 15 minutes, so we had a minute or two to look through Hawthorne’s birthplace. We walked through, read the plaques, and I imagined again Hawthorne walking through the house, sitting at another desk, writing away about the beautiful dark-haired girl labeled and exiled from her Puritan community, the girl who would turn out to be the first heroine in American literature. How many different times have I been inspired and encouraged by Hester Prynne? How many times has Hawthorne comforted me in my frustration with hypocrites and admonished me to be humble and to have a servant’s heart but a warrior spirit like Hester? And why does she not hold a higher place in American lit? Have we grown so lazy in our reading that we throw away a book of such importance because we must read it slowly and closely to appreciate all he says? Side note: I know I am beginning to stray, but I grow more and more frustrated as The Scarlet Letter seems to fade in popularity while its relevance seems to grow. When I hear students from other American lit classes make comments about how no one really cares about unwed mothers anymore, I want to shake them and their teachers. They obviously haven’t truly read the book.
Back on topic, back to the House of the Seven Gables. Our tour guide was fabulously knowledgeable about the Turner family who originally owned the house that inspired Hawthorne’s novel by the same name, and she told us stories about how Hawthorne spent time in the house being entertained by the daughter who inherited the house when her father and brother died at sea and how she decided to remain unmarried so she could keep her property. The house even had a secret staircase put in by the 20th century owner so the house would fit more closely to the one portrayed in the novel. The owners who sought to keep the house for its historical value bought the house to raise money for a housing settlement for immigrants, so even now the proceeds from the tour fees go to the same cause. The house sits right on the harbor, and from nearly all of the windows, we could see blue water and white sail boats. The garden outside the house still boasts beautiful blooms and a vine-covered tunnel for shade.
In the gift shop, I found my own scarlet letter t-shirt. I have made them before for school experiments and literature dress-up days, but this one has the A on the front and a quote from the novel on the back. The entire gift shop was filled with Hawthorne memorabilia, and I felt I was finally among my people, a place where people understood his genius and wanted to preserve his legacy. Yet, I didn’t feel his spirit. I knew he had lived there, had worked there, had written there, but he was not still there. I loved every minute of my walk in Salem, but Hawthorne’s spirit was in Concord. Even though his philosophy was a bit darker than Thoreau’s, and even though Hawthorne battled with his Puritan upbringing, his spirit was in Concord with the Transcendentalists. He wanted to leave Salem behind along with the Puritan voice in his head, and I think he did. Salem was a place to learn and experience and grow, but Concord was where he left his heart. That afternoon on Authors Ridge I felt their lasting impact; their spirits still live there in the hills. Hawthorne had Salem to thank for his brilliance, but he couldn’t stay in that harsh world.
After my pilgrimage to the House of the Seven Gables, we had lunch at Brodie’s Seaport, a great little restaurant right on the water. Tuesday just happened to be their day for the lobster roll special, and Joel and I had always wanted to try one. Serendipity again. Marc joined us in our first lobster roll experience (Jordan stuck with chicken wings that he enjoyed very much), and for a few minutes, we sat in a New England town enjoying a New England lunch.
My day in Salem was close to perfect, but we still had some afternoon time left, so we took off toward Harvard. I was determined to buy a Harvard t-shirt on campus, so we plugged in the university book store on the GPS and rode right into Cambridge, Massachusetts. We were quite surprised how quickly and easily we found it, and we became quite tickled at the thought of how silly we were to be walking around Harvard where the smartest kids in the world go to school. And students walked all around on a Tuesday afternoon in July. When I expressed some surprise at that, Jordan said, “Momma, I think these kids go to school year round.” Maybe so, and his theory was backed up by the lack of Harvard memorabilia in the school book store. The book store really just sold books. They had a couple of shirts and hoodies and hats, but nothing like any other school book store I have visited. So, we walked down the block to a Harvard souvenir shop and stocked up. While we walked around Harvard square, we saw a random turkey hanging in the gathering area near the T station, right in front of the Harvard Square sign. I have no idea why it was there or how it got there, but I took a photo.
So, that is the way our Tuesday in Salem ended, and I was all the more in love with the North Atlantic coast. Wednesday was our day for downtown and Cape Cod baseball, so we tried to hit the sack a little earlier that night to prepare for a big day in the big city.
We started at the visitors center, and the attendant there was more than helpful. (By the way, our experience with people in Massachusetts has been phenomenal. Everyone has been more than friendly and seemed to enjoy talking to us and helping us when we needed info or directions.) She gave me a map, told me of some particular events around town, and then told me that everything on the map was no more than a mile from where we were, the ocean included. I had read numerous positive reviews of the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum, so we headed there first.
I guess the Lord has blessed our trip because nearly every time we hit a touring spot, we have hit it at just the right time, and the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum was no different. We had about 15 minutes before the next show, so we took care of restroom breaks and photos and were ready for the show. Of all the moments in Boston, this might have been the historical one that actually interested Jordan and Joel. They didn’t come into the museum anticipating enjoying the festivities, but we all knew as soon as we entered the theater that we were in for something quite different. The theater area was created similar to a Puritan church with backless benches lining the center. We were told to take a seat anywhere in the dark room and wait for instructions. I could make out a few shadows of the characters along the sides of the theater, and because I teach The Crucible, I could tell where the show was headed, but that didn’t mean I didn’t get chills or learn something. After instructions, a narrator’s deep male voice began telling the story of the innocent victims of the Salem Witch Trials. As the story progressed, each scene lit up in a counter-clockwise direction, and we followed the story all around the dark room. The scenes were created with mannequins and with less-than-professional effects, but that aspect along with the dim lights of various colors, created a haunting atmosphere appropriate for this horrifying story. The story was historically accurate, but the story itself is chilling enough; no embellishments are needed.
After the diorama / story-telling first act, we moved to another room where a knowledgeable tour guide led us through a display about the history of witches. She started with various portraits of witches throughout history, including those portrayed in Hollywood. Separating each section of the lecture were more diorama/story-telling moments where voices would speak behind portraits / mannequins as if those items were speaking directly to us. The history included stories about pagan healers in the days before Jesus, organized witch hunts throughout the Christian era, and Hollywood’s variations on the folk witch image. At the end of the lecture, the guide gave a short history behind Arthur Miller’s The Crucible as a metaphor for McCarthyism and then offered a wonderful math equation to show how this witch hunt phenomenon evolves in certain points of our history. This formula shows quite clearly how a witch hunt develops from fear, and I hope to use it in my class this year when we research the modern implications of the lessons presented in The Crucible.
Of course, we had to exit through the gift shop, and I found an excellent t-shirt to wear when I teach The Crucible this year along with some other classroom decorations and a teachers’ kit for teaching about the Salem Witch Trials. I asked the cashier if Salem became a mad house in October, and her answer was, “You have no idea.”
Honestly, I thought the troubled past of Salem would have created a more mystic or haunting atmosphere. I was sure I would feel the unrest of the accused souls still walking the streets, hoping the tourists would take notice of their injustice. Yet, I didn’t feel any creepiness, even when I went to the graveyard and the memorial. In fact, Salem has almost commercialized the history to a point where the atmosphere seems almost like that of a witch theme park. The streets are lined with psychics and professing witches, crystal balls and broomsticks, and all the accessories to make the witch history almost totally kitsch. In fact, we saw an old-time photography store where one dresses up in witch attire rather than old west attire for black-and-white photos. Stores sold t-shirts that said, “I got stoned in Salem” and “I am not a witch; I just curse a lot.” Funny, sarcastic, and clever – but not haunting.
We left the 1692 Salem Witch Trial Museum and headed for the Salem Witch Trial Memorial, where for each person murdered in the trials, a bench sits in a semi-circle with his or her name and life dates carved into the seat. I sat a while with John Proctor, whom I have always considered to be one of the sexiest characters in American lit because of his resistance to the hysteria and his strength in opposing the daunting and prejudiced judges to the point of sacrificing himself to stay true to what was true. I also took a minute to honor Giles Cory, one of the toughest and proudest of the victims of the trials. If you don’t know about Giles Cory, he is worth researching; his story is remarkable. Finally, I stopped to admire the memorials of flowers for Bridget Bishop and the memorials of rocks and pennies for Sarah Good. Quite poignant.
At the Salem cemetery, I found the grave sights of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s parents and grandparents. For those who don’t know, Hawthorne was born Nathaniel Hathorne in Salem, but he added the “w” to his name to disassociate himself from one of his grandfathers, Judge Hathorne, who was relentless in his pursuit of punishing those accused of witchcraft. He was so appalled by his family member’s participation in the trials, he changed his name and eventually moved away (his grave is in Concord). So Daniel Hathorne’s grave and that of Nathaniel’s mother and other relatives sit in a family gravesite there in Salem. Some of the graves were so old, tree roots had grown around the granite, and many of the tombstones were completely unreadable.
Next stop: the custom house, the famed custom house of the preface to The Scarlet Letter where Hawthorne worked for a while as he composed some of his greatest works. If you know The Scarlet Letter, then you know he devised a story of finding some old artifacts in the custom house, one of which was a magical and mysterious red letter A trimmed in gold thread. The beautiful enigma of the letter spurred him to research its history, and the story of Hester Prynne evolved from there. If you know me, then you know how much I adore The Scarlet Letter, so I couldn’t wait to see the very place where Hawthorne had actually worked and developed the idea for his masterpiece. The National Park guide showed us a replica of an authentic bill given to a ship that docked there in the early 19th century; I was astonished to learn that the ship’s owner would have had to pay over $15,000 in custom taxes when he landed in Salem. In the first room to the left sat Hawthorne’s desk along with his pen, ink well, walking stick, and something like a thermometer that measured alcohol content for taxing purposes. I overheard some less-than-literary people in the room before us trying to brainstorm every piece of knowledge they possessed about Hawthorne. I gripped Marc’s arm to keep myself from dashing off a smart remark, and I had to turn around altogether when the man asked Siri, “What books did Nathaniel Hawthorne write?”.
“I need them to leave. I need to be here alone with just us when I see his stuff,” I whispered to Marc.
“You are scaring me, Kristie.” Marc answered.
“I just need to feel the vibes, get a sense of his work,” I explained. I just could not take in the ambiance of the very room where Hawthorne wrote part of The Scarlet Letter while those who could not appreciate his greatness Googled information about him. When they left, I soaked in all I could find and imagined Hawthorne sitting at the desk in front of me, contemplating Dimmesdale’s self-torture and Chillingworth’s brilliantly devastating method of revenge. If I could tap into one ounce of his talent and insight….
Jordan and Joel lost interest quickly and waited on me on the steps of the custom house, so I soaked in all I could, walked out, and began our trek to The House of the Seven Gables, which was less than a half mile on down the road. The sun scorched our path just as hot as if we were back home in South Carolina, and we gratefully stopped at the mist fans placed along the road. We stopped for a moment to see about a ship tour later in the afternoon, but the ship had not arrived, yet, and the boys said that if they ship were not going to leave the harbor, they didn’t see a need to tour it. So, just a moment with the House of the Seven Gables and then lunch and we would be on our way.
The House of the Seven Gables, however, was the place I had been looking for, a place where people loved Nathaniel Hawthorne like I did. Our guided tour was to start in about 15 minutes, so we had a minute or two to look through Hawthorne’s birthplace. We walked through, read the plaques, and I imagined again Hawthorne walking through the house, sitting at another desk, writing away about the beautiful dark-haired girl labeled and exiled from her Puritan community, the girl who would turn out to be the first heroine in American literature. How many different times have I been inspired and encouraged by Hester Prynne? How many times has Hawthorne comforted me in my frustration with hypocrites and admonished me to be humble and to have a servant’s heart but a warrior spirit like Hester? And why does she not hold a higher place in American lit? Have we grown so lazy in our reading that we throw away a book of such importance because we must read it slowly and closely to appreciate all he says? Side note: I know I am beginning to stray, but I grow more and more frustrated as The Scarlet Letter seems to fade in popularity while its relevance seems to grow. When I hear students from other American lit classes make comments about how no one really cares about unwed mothers anymore, I want to shake them and their teachers. They obviously haven’t truly read the book.
Back on topic, back to the House of the Seven Gables. Our tour guide was fabulously knowledgeable about the Turner family who originally owned the house that inspired Hawthorne’s novel by the same name, and she told us stories about how Hawthorne spent time in the house being entertained by the daughter who inherited the house when her father and brother died at sea and how she decided to remain unmarried so she could keep her property. The house even had a secret staircase put in by the 20th century owner so the house would fit more closely to the one portrayed in the novel. The owners who sought to keep the house for its historical value bought the house to raise money for a housing settlement for immigrants, so even now the proceeds from the tour fees go to the same cause. The house sits right on the harbor, and from nearly all of the windows, we could see blue water and white sail boats. The garden outside the house still boasts beautiful blooms and a vine-covered tunnel for shade.
In the gift shop, I found my own scarlet letter t-shirt. I have made them before for school experiments and literature dress-up days, but this one has the A on the front and a quote from the novel on the back. The entire gift shop was filled with Hawthorne memorabilia, and I felt I was finally among my people, a place where people understood his genius and wanted to preserve his legacy. Yet, I didn’t feel his spirit. I knew he had lived there, had worked there, had written there, but he was not still there. I loved every minute of my walk in Salem, but Hawthorne’s spirit was in Concord. Even though his philosophy was a bit darker than Thoreau’s, and even though Hawthorne battled with his Puritan upbringing, his spirit was in Concord with the Transcendentalists. He wanted to leave Salem behind along with the Puritan voice in his head, and I think he did. Salem was a place to learn and experience and grow, but Concord was where he left his heart. That afternoon on Authors Ridge I felt their lasting impact; their spirits still live there in the hills. Hawthorne had Salem to thank for his brilliance, but he couldn’t stay in that harsh world.
After my pilgrimage to the House of the Seven Gables, we had lunch at Brodie’s Seaport, a great little restaurant right on the water. Tuesday just happened to be their day for the lobster roll special, and Joel and I had always wanted to try one. Serendipity again. Marc joined us in our first lobster roll experience (Jordan stuck with chicken wings that he enjoyed very much), and for a few minutes, we sat in a New England town enjoying a New England lunch.
My day in Salem was close to perfect, but we still had some afternoon time left, so we took off toward Harvard. I was determined to buy a Harvard t-shirt on campus, so we plugged in the university book store on the GPS and rode right into Cambridge, Massachusetts. We were quite surprised how quickly and easily we found it, and we became quite tickled at the thought of how silly we were to be walking around Harvard where the smartest kids in the world go to school. And students walked all around on a Tuesday afternoon in July. When I expressed some surprise at that, Jordan said, “Momma, I think these kids go to school year round.” Maybe so, and his theory was backed up by the lack of Harvard memorabilia in the school book store. The book store really just sold books. They had a couple of shirts and hoodies and hats, but nothing like any other school book store I have visited. So, we walked down the block to a Harvard souvenir shop and stocked up. While we walked around Harvard square, we saw a random turkey hanging in the gathering area near the T station, right in front of the Harvard Square sign. I have no idea why it was there or how it got there, but I took a photo.
So, that is the way our Tuesday in Salem ended, and I was all the more in love with the North Atlantic coast. Wednesday was our day for downtown and Cape Cod baseball, so we tried to hit the sack a little earlier that night to prepare for a big day in the big city.
Kristie Camp 